


Leave the Signal Burning

by madsthenerdygirl



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Absolute Fools, Alternate Title: Three PTSD-Riddled Messes Start the Slow Road to Recovery, Back on My Bullshit With Another AU, Can You All Tell I Think Billionaires are the Scum of the Earth, Can You Believe These Idiots Spent Five Years Pining After Each Other, God Only Knows What Rufus and the Others Suffered This Whole Time, Human Disaster Garcia Flynn, Multi, Or Was I Too Subtle, Started From the Garbage Now We Here, The Batman AU That Nobody Asked For, With Breaks for Snacks and Romantic Entanglements, Wyatt Pulls a Shang, every single one of them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 09:21:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19315267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madsthenerdygirl/pseuds/madsthenerdygirl
Summary: Lucy Preston has spent the last five years as Gotham’s vigilante—and as Wyatt Logan’s pain in the ass and the Black Cat’s favored target for his witty barbs. But the two men who piss her off the most are about to become her only allies as the past she thought she’d left behind threatens to consume her.





	Leave the Signal Burning

Lucy never intended to become Archangel.

She wanted to become a historian.

“A historian?” Mother had laughed. “My darling, love of history is very important in our family. Perhaps you can chair some historical preservation societies when you’re older.”

Lucy’d quickly learned growing up that a Preston woman was not allowed to simply be whatever she wanted. She had a legacy to uphold on both sides of her family. She had to be the perfect Preston Princess.

Until a dark night, walking home, just her and Mother and Father.

Amy was too young to go. “She can attend the opera next year,” Father had said kindly.

Lucy never intended to become Archangel.

Then they took a shortcut down an alley, fire exploded into the night, and she didn’t remember anything else until a kind policewoman was holding her and telling her, “it’s all right, my name’s Denise, I’m going to take care of you until your next-door neighbor can come,” and then Mason was telling her not to worry, Miss Preston, he’d settle everything, come home and have some hot chocolate with Amy and Rufus.

Everything in her life changed in that moment.

She couldn’t be a historian. She wouldn’t simply be Princess Preston.

She became the one thing left to her:

Archangel.

 

* * *

 

If you’d asked Flynn, he hadn’t asked to become Black Cat any more than Lucy had asked to become Gotham’s favorite brooding vigilante.

Once, he’d been an academic. Arguing on behalf of people who wanted their art and history taken out of colonist museums and put back in museums in their homeland, where they belonged. Stolen goods deserved to be returned.

Then he’d gone up against the wrong organization.

What, he’d thought, could be so menacing about the Rittenhouse art collection?

One dead wife and daughter later and he’d learned. Oh, had he learned.

Finding information on who or what Rittenhouse was, that proved harder than he’d expected. But he could be patient. In the meantime, it was nothing to slip into museums and wealthy homes and continue the work he’d always done.

Just, you know, without the pesky law-following that went along with it.

Of course, the Gotham PD would have something to say about it, but all due respect to Commissioner Christopher…

Fuck the police.

He’d keep righting wrongs his own way. Until he could find whoever owned the Rittenhouse collection and make them pay.

 

* * *

 

Wyatt, on the other hand, had one hundred percent a choice in becoming a police officer if you asked his now ex-wife and he’d made the wrong one.

“How many of your colleagues screwed over a person of color today?” Jess would ask when she met up with him in the bar for drinks.

“I hate you,” Wyatt would always respond.

But he had wanted a home base, and he wasn’t good for anything besides what the army had taught him, and well, maybe if the police in his home town had done their job a little better he wouldn’t have had to live with his dad until he was a teenager. He wanted to do better for the kids around him, kids who might have a dad who was just as bad or worse than his had been.

The thing he’d never intended and apparently didn’t have a choice in?

Becoming commissioner.

“You’re getting chosen because you’re white and a man,” Jess said when she heard the news, and honestly? Wyatt agreed with her. Denise Christopher was an amazing commissioner and being forced to step down over the whole Archangel issue was fucking bullshit. The old brass in City Hall just wanted the lesbian Indian woman out of office.

“They’re pressuring me to get rid of the signal,” Wyatt told Jess that night. “To stop allying with Archangel.”

Jess drummed her fingers on the table. “It’s thanks to them that Gotham’s crime rate has gone down the last five years.”

It was also thanks to them that Wyatt had a few really embarrassing kinks entering his daydreams now. Of course, before he'd been commissioner and when he'd dreamed of meeting Archangel, it had been more of a 'vigilante helped him kick ass and then asked him out for drinks' kind of scenario and not a 'get into yet another argument with said vigilante about how the staff runs things at Arkham' one.

“I know, trust me, but all they see is the increase in those whacky themed crimes. And Archangel’s someone they can’t control, someone they can’t bribe or coerce. They don’t like that.”

Jess downed her drink and set her glass aside. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ve got a plus one invitation to the big party that the Preston sisters are hosting this weekend. Everybody who’s anybody is going to be there. You, as the commissioner, can put in an appearance and I’ll see about getting you a moment alone with Lucy Preston.”

Lucy Preston had shocked Gotham society, first by disappearing for ten years, and then second by reappearing to take over Preston Enterprises and all its holdings and promptly dismantling the monopoly and donating everything. She was an outspoken proponent against billionaires, and had made herself an example, cutting her net worth down to only a couple million and creating airtight contracts that ensured nobody else could use the company to create an empire or pocket a few extra million for themselves. She was anti-capitalist, anti-elitism, anti-just about anything rich white people liked.

She was neutral on the subject of Archangel but her younger sister, Amy Preston, was staunchly and publicly in support of the vigilante.

“If you can get Lucy to publicly back your continued support of Archangel, that’ll be a coup,” Jess said.

“She’s remained quiet on the subject for five years, Jess, she’s not gonna break that silence for me.”

Jess eyed him. “Oh, I think she will.”

 

* * *

 

Lucy yanked off her helmet as she entered the cave. “I fucking hate clowns.”

“Everybody fuckin’ hates clowns,” Rufus said, turning away from the wall of computer monitors. “But hey, he’s back in jail, so…”

Lucy stepped out of the suit—she was actually on false feet the entire time, to give her an extra seven inches of height. That plus the chest armor and the voice modulator in the helmet made it so that nobody could guess her gender. Most people assumed she was male, and she let them.

“That damn Logan needs to cut me some slack,” she said. “I catch Joker for him and what does he do? Ask to know why Black Cat’s still at large! You’d think I sat around all day twiddling my thumbs—I don’t know why he even turns the damn signal on for me, he clearly just wants me done with.”

“I miss Christopher,” Rufus agreed.

Denise Christopher had been the best commissioner this city could’ve asked for. Fucking backwards thinking politics. Now she was stuck with Wyatt Logan. He was an all right guy, cute, well-meaning, had his heart in the right place, and okay she wanted to see him tied to her bed, but he was way too black and white in his thinking and not good as a leader. That guy was meant to follow orders, not give them, and the role of commissioner fit him like a suit that was two sizes too big.

"Good thing he's easy on the eyes, right?" Rufus added, pointedly not looking at her.

Lucy ignored his jab. He'd be making one about Black Cat too next, if she gave him a chance. "I don't mix work and fun."

"You're right, because that would imply you ever have fun at all. How long have you had a crush on both of these men?"

"Are you deaf? I just said Logan pisses me off."

"Mmhmm."

Lucy sighed, stretching and feeling her back crack. “Have I missed much of the party?”

“Amy opened it,” Rufus said. “And now she’s…” He checked the monitors. “…flirting with that blonde reporter, the one who says fuck blue lives in every column.”

“Jessica Logan? Oh, great, good, a good ally.”

“Uh…” Rufus cleared his throat. “I think Amy’s doing more than making an ally of her.”

Lucy braced her hand on the back of Rufus’s chair and peered at the monitor to see Jessica Logan pressing Amy up against a bookshelf in the library and conduct a thorough investigation underneath Amy’s dress. “For crying out loud.”

“That’s what we call an exclusive interview,” Rufus joked.

Lucy elbowed him.

Well, her sister’s sexual escapades weren’t Lucy’s problem. She had to dash upstairs and take a quick shower, then make herself look like she hadn’t been kicking the ass of several criminals for two hours. “Right, keep monitoring everything, let me know if it’s an emergency but otherwise, time to schmooze.”

“Oh, Mason said that there was someone here to see you,” Rufus added. “A Garcia Flynn? He’s an antiques expert.”

Lucy groaned. “Can’t he see I’m hosting the social event of the goddamn season? Why couldn’t he come during the afternoon?”

“Don’t know, maybe he had an invite.”

“I’ll talk to him later.” Lucy dashed up the steps. “Tell Mason he’s a saint!”

“I can’t tell him that,” Rufus muttered. “The man’s head is big enough already.”

Lucy ignored him, slipping out of the grandfather clock in her father’s study and then slipping up the servant’s stairs to get to her bedroom without being spotted. She’d cultivated a reputation for being fashionably late but there was only so much Mason could do to host in her absence, especially with Amy apparently more interested in getting eaten out by a hot reporter then doing her part to ensure the party went smoothly.

Okay, hop in the shower, blow dry her hair… ah, Amy had been kind enough to lay out the…

Lucy paused.

She distinctly remembered choosing a light blue dress for this party.

Why was her burgundy dress now on the bed?

“You look better in red,” someone said.

Lucy’s spine stiffened. Goddammit. She knew that voice.

 

* * *

 

Lucy’s first meeting with the Black Cat did not exactly go well. When she caught him lifting some rather fine necklaces out of the Cartier display case, she’d told him, “I don’t believe those jewels are yours.”

The man had stared at her for a second like he was on _The Office_ before drawling, “I salute you, World’s Greatest Detective.”

It had only gone downhill from there.

Black Cat seemed to think he was doing people a favor by stealing from the rich, and as far as she could tell, he genuinely didn’t keep the jewels—bloodstained with the lives of indigenous people around the world—for himself. Whether he actually used them for charity… well, Lucy had in fact done some detective work and had noticed a pattern between the Black Cat stealing jewelry and things like, say, a rebellion against a warlord in central Africa.

Didn’t mean she could just let him waltz around stealing from museums and people’s homes.

She’d told him so, many a time, usually as they tried to beat the crap out of each other. Lucy would never admit it—not to Mason, not to Rufus, not to Jiya (her other tech assistant), not even to Amy—but she pulled her punches with Black Cat. Went for holds instead of straight punches.

And she was pretty sure he did the same with her.

Over the past five years he’d been a pain in her ass but he’d also been witty. He’d been a complete garbage fire—literally, once—but one time when she’d fallen off a roof and he’d thought she’d been injured she’d heard him scream for her, and she knew he’d followed her at a distance for several blocks until she’d shown that she wasn’t injured and could do her usual gliding and leaping from roof to roof just fine.

He’d been an amoral thief.

But he’d also teased her, complimented her, bantered with her… been the one criminal she’d actually had _fun_ with, instead of another psychopathic clown who threw deadly gas bombs at her or a mentally unwell person she had to struggle to help.

And, okay, so maybe she’d come to like his voice, the odd accent, the way he drew out the vowels—the way he called her _Angel_ and made it sound like something sensual and precious all at once.

So, sue her, she had a bit of a crush on her goddamn adversary.

Didn’t mean she wanted him picking out a dress for her in her bedroom.

“Um, I’m sorry?” Lucy stammered, playing the scared, surprised hostess. She was in a towel for fuck’s sake.

Black Cat stepped out of the shadows. “I was hoping that you and I could have a little talk, Miss Preston.”

“Um, I’ve heard of you, you’re—you’re the jewel thief, right?” She pointed at her dresser. "Look, you can take whatever you want, except the pearls, okay, those are my mom’s. But anything else, honest, I don’t care.”

The man tipped his head to the side. “You know—I expected a little more backbone from you. I’ve heard good things about you, Miss Preston.”

He circled around her. “But perhaps it’s all a show. Perhaps you are as cowardly as you’re sounding right now… or perhaps you’re far more ruthless than you’d like me or anyone else to believe.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You have some very interesting pieces in your home collection. Belonging to a… a David Rittenhouse.”

Lucy froze. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

Black Cat also froze. “David Rittenhouse?”

Bile rose up in Lucy’s throat and her legs went numb. She nearly crashed to the floor, and it was only a pair of warm, gloved hands steadying her that kept her upright. “I—I don’t—I’m sorry—”

She could barely remember that night. The police had questioned her over and over, but all she could remember were the gunshots. Right before it was all a blank.

 _Trauma,_ the doctors had told Mason when he’d made it clear he would be taking over guardianship. _Her mind is blocking it out until she can handle it. Frankly, sir, I think your adopted daughter’s health is more important than catching whoever did this. She’ll remember when she’s ready._

“I know that name…” she whispered.

Black Cat helped her onto the bed. “Miss Preston? Lucy?”

She liked how he said her name. “I’m sorry, I—you just—I’ve never heard that name in my private collection. I’ve only heard it… once before.”

_Rittenhouse sends their regards._

“I find that odd, seeing as I tracked ownership of a china set and a series of clocks created by David Rittenhouse to your mother.”

Lucy rubbed at her forehead. “Mason, my—my guardian, he and my sister, they—I left, I was gone for a decade, they took care of the household items. They wouldn’t… know…”

“Oh, _sranje_ ,” Black Cat muttered, and then some tissues were being thrust into her face.

Lucy realized she was crying.

“This is not how I imagined this going,” Black Cat said, starting to pace.

“You think this is how I imagined my night going?” Lucy snapped. “I have to be downstairs, I have a party to host, not that you would know anything about that, you overgrown pile of limbs and loner issues!”

The man snorted. “Only one person’s ever had the guts to talk to me like that.”

“Oh, yeah, who, the poor sod who posts your bail?” Lucy gestured at herself. “I’m in a towel, did it not occur to you to do this any other way? Or did you just have to be as absolutely dramatic as possible, like always?”

Black Cat froze.

Oh, fuck.

Lucy forced herself to stand up, ignoring her shaking legs. “You want to talk to me about Rittenhouse—and trust me, I am very interested in that name and how you know it and why it feels like I should know it—you can make an appointment through my secretary Jiya Marri like every other goddamn person with half a brain in this city. Now get out of my room and let me change!”

Black Cat stared at her, and underneath the mask, Lucy thought she saw genuine… something, in his eyes. Dare she call it softness?

“Of course.” He gave her a small bow. Black Cat had often done that over the years to Archangel, but it had been mocking. This seemed… sincere.

Lucy turned away, ignoring her flaming cheeks.

His next words were soft. “Enjoy your party, angel.”

Lucy whipped around, but he was already gone.

 

* * *

 

Wyatt tapped Connor Mason on the shoulder. “Mr. Mason. I hate to be a drag but I thought you said she’d be here by now.”

Mason turned around. The man was too polite to sigh, but Wyatt saw that he wanted to. “Commissioner. My daughter has just flown in from Japan. She is understandably jet lagged and so if she is a little late—”

“Excuse me.” A tall—holy fuck—man brushed past them, looking shaken. Wyatt wondered briefly if he was one of the models that had apparently been invited to ‘pretty up’ the party (which he now knew was something that rich people did? what the hell?) but the man was dressed too conservatively for that. Instead of a fancy suit he was wearing dark pants and a dark red turtleneck. Underdressed for this event, frankly.

But then, so was Wyatt in his off-the-rack so.

“Mr. Mason, I have some questions for you,” the man said.

“Whoa, I was here first,” Wyatt cut in.

The man gave him a look of supreme disdain. “And you are?”

Wyatt bristled. “Commissioner Logan of the Gotham PD, and you are?”

“Garcia Flynn, antiquities,” the man, Flynn, replied. “Is your situation life and death? Because I promise you mine just might be.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Mason said. “Could I please get one evening that isn’t somehow life and death, I’d have nothing but gray hairs up here if I had any hair at all with the way everyone’s giving me heart attacks right and left—”

“I’m so sorry I’m late, Connor.”

Wyatt’s jaw dropped. Next to him, he saw Flynn just about doing the same.

Lucy Preston was absolutely _stunning_.

She was wearing a burgundy dress with long sleeves and a skintight bodice made out of a dark, shining fabric with layers around the skirt and a high collar that then draped down over an open back. Her dark hair was piled up with a few wispy curls hanging down, framing her face, her makeup minimal except for around her dark eyes, where she was wearing red eyeliner and dark smoky eyeshadow.

Mason offered his arm to her. “My dear, you are never late, you are the hostess. You arrive when you see fit.”

Lucy smiled at Wyatt and Flynn. “And you two are…?”

Wyatt remembered he had a tongue, and that furthermore he could use it. “Wyatt Logan, ma’am, police commissioner.”

“We’re the same age, Mr. Logan, I don’t think the ma’am is necessary,” Lucy told him, shaking his hand. Her hand wasn’t what he expected—oddly callused, like she did a lot of work with them.

Also where had he heard that phrase before? Someone had said that to him once…

“Garcia Flynn,” Flynn said, shaking Lucy’s hand next. “Antiquities, I was hoping to speak to you about your private family collection but I’ve been informed that in fact your sister is the person to speak with.”

“Oh, yes.” Lucy smiled. “I was away for quite some time, Amy dealt with the family heirlooms when we inherited. I handled the company assets.”

“Very well,” Flynn said. “I appreciate your stance on the one percent.”

“Oh don’t get her started, please,” Mason groaned.

Lucy gave Mason a wicked smile. “Connor here’s had a lifetime of raising a class traitor, he’s heard all the rants before.” She looked at Wyatt. “But what are you doing here, Commissioner?”

“I was hoping to talk to you about, uh, about Archangel.”

Flynn had a coughing fit.

Mason glanced at the other man. “Why don’t I get you some water for that, and Lucy and the Commissioner can talk, and then you can speak with her after?”

Flynn nodded, two spots of color high up on his cheeks. He looked good, flustered, and Wyatt ignored the swooping sensation in his stomach.

Look, he’d privately come to terms with his… uh… wide and varying tastes. But the last thing he needed was the gossip rags trumpeting about the Commissioner wearing rainbow instead of blue.

Wyatt avoided Flynn’s eyes as Flynn and Mason walked past him. Lucy looked at him expectantly.

Wyatt cleared his throat. “Ah. Ma—Miss Preston.”

“Lucy, please.”

“Lucy. You’ve been reticent about your opinions on the vigilante Archangel. I was hoping that—there’s been a tide of backlash against them from various—I thought a key endorsement might help to stop me from having to shut down the police cooperation with Archangel.”

“I’m surprised,” Lucy noted. “From what I’ve heard you and Archangel don’t get along nearly as well as they did with your predecessor.”

“We’ve been… finding our rhythm.” Arguing almost every night up on that damn cold rooftop, more like.

It didn’t help that Wyatt had… well. Archangel was a man, right? Tall, muscular, deep voice. It had sparked a bit… okay a lot… of a crisis in him (one that Jess had patiently nursed him through) to realize that the images that had been entering his mind when he’d jacked himself off in the shower weren’t of soft feminine voices and curves but of his unconventional police partner, broad hands on his thighs and a deep voice in his ear.

So Wyatt got confrontational, the way he did with any truth he didn’t want to accept. It was a shit move to make, as Jess had pointed out often, but there it was.

But he wanted to do better. He owed Archangel better. The guy was putting his life at risk and taking down people that the police couldn’t. Wyatt owed it to him to be more patient.

And he owed it to him to succeed in keeping their partnership.

“Look, I didn’t appreciate him at first,” he admitted. “But I’m limited in a lot of ways. I have my hands tied by procedure, by politics, by being just shit at this job. I was put here to be a puppet and trust me, I know it. There’s only so much I can do right now but Archangel? Archangel can do whatever they damn well please. I need them, and the people love them. If you throw your weight behind it—the people listen to you, both the average people and these fat cat fuckers. So if… if you could maybe… I don’t know, host a press conference or something?”

Lucy looked amused. “That’s not exactly how it works, but yes, I could release a statement. Amy—my sister—has been pressing me to do so for ages.”

Wyatt relaxed. “Thank God. I thought you’d fight me harder on this.”

Lucy’s eyes twinkled. “No, I think you’ve got your hands full enough already, Commissioner. And I would give yourself more credit. You have an impressive record as a homicide detective and your work on the abusive foster home case of two years ago is legendary in the department.”

Wyatt blinked in surprise. “You read up on me.”

“I read up on all our public figures.” She tilted her head. “Tell me, why did you never become a social worker? All of your interviews mention your passion for helping children.”

“Didn’t think I’d be good at it, I guess.”

Lucy hummed thoughtfully. “Well. I think perhaps you should stop trying to be who everyone says you should be and start thinking about who you really want to be.”

She patted him on the shoulder, giving him a fond smile—as if they were friends catching up for drinks instead of strangers, and then walked away.

Huh.

 

* * *

 

Flynn thought he might drown himself in the champagne fountain.

He hadn’t planned—he hadn’t thought Lucy would be in the shower, for one thing, never mind—never mind apparently sending her into a panic attack—having a woman in a dangerously low-hanging towel yell at him was bad enough but when that woman—when that woman was—

Of course. It all made sense. The money to create the armor and the equipment that Archangel used. How Lucy Preston was notoriously late for social events and the only person to remain quiet on her opinion of Gotham’s masked vigilante. How Archangel was carefully gender neutral in their language, why they used a voice modulator—five years’ worth of interactions replayed in his head from a different angle.

And of course the person who was underneath the mask he’d been in love with for five years was a stunning, classy, whip-smart anti-capitalist class traitor. It was like the universe was laughing at him and pranking him on purpose here.

He bumped into the pretty boy commissioner on his way to speak to Lucy. “Careful.” He put a hand on Logan’s chest to steady him.

Logan’s face went pink. “You’re—you’re pretty buff for an antique dealer,” he said.

“I’m not an antiques dealer, I’m an antiques expert,” Flynn replied evenly. “And we come in all shapes and sizes.”

“I bet you do,” Logan muttered.

He then seemed to realize he’d said that out loud and his face got even pinker. “Look, I don’t know what you’re after, but I think Miss Preston has enough people demanding things of her time, okay? So just go easy on her.”

“I’m sure Miss Preston can handle me herself. She’s an adult who’s capable of making her own decisions.” Flynn dropped his hand from Logan’s chest. “You were doing so well until the chauvinist side came out.”

“Doing so well at what?”

Flynn winked at him. “Flirting.”

Logan gaped at him, face red, as Flynn walked up to Lucy.

 _Angel_.

He had fallen in love with her long before he saw her face, but now…

If she truly didn’t know about Rittenhouse, but it was in her family… was that why Carol Preston and Henry Wallace had been murdered? Nobody had ever known why they were killed. Lucy had been a child at the time, and it had been a sensation— _billionaire child inherits everything, can’t recall how her parents died, daughter the only witness,_ headlines like that. Could Rittenhouse have gotten Carol and Henry the way they got Lorena and Iris and tried to get him?

Archangel didn’t exactly need protecting. But seeing her now, having a face to go with the personality, the banter, the principles—he loved, he loved, he _loved_ her, had loved her for so long. If she was in danger from Rittenhouse instead of being a member then he had to do what he could to help her.

He should tell her. _I’m Black Cat. You know me. I’m Black Cat. Hello Angel, I’m Black Cat._

Lucy turned as he reached her. “Hello, you said you wished to speak to me about some antiques?”

Flynn opened his mouth. Gasped like a fish on land. “Miss Preston.”

“Yes?”

“I wanted to speak to you about—about some—I’ve been tracing a rare antiques collection that I believe passed into the hands of your family, or at least your mother, some years ago.”

Lucy got a shrewd look in her eyes. It somehow reminded him of this tone that Archangel would adopt with him when Flynn was getting testy. “This wouldn’t be the Rittenhouse collection that I apparently own, by any chance?”

Flynn thought he might just die on the spot from his own spit strangling him. “Ah, yes. I salute you, excellent instincts.”

An odd look passed over Lucy’s face. “I don’t think you’ve actually saluted anyone in your life,” she said.

“Only sarcastically.”

He should tell her. _I know who you are. I’m Black Cat. You can trust me._

But—first of all he had just made a complete fool of himself as his alter ego. And second of all—he’d spent five years being, well, a pain in her ass. And he was happy to do it. How else was he supposed to get Archangel’s attention? Somewhere along the way his run-ins with her had become the only time he was ever having fun, the only time he was happy. Crazy as that sounded. But he doubted she’d enjoyed their time the way he had. He’d been making her job harder, after all.

What if he told her and she hated him?

And if she hated him, she wouldn’t hear what he had to say. She’d be vulnerable and wouldn’t even know it.

He’d just—give her his information, and then leave. Never bother her again. It would be best that way.

“This isn’t what I thought—what I planned to tell you,” he said. “I was going to ask for your permission to look at the pieces but—Miss Preston if you look me up, you’ll see that I’m persona non grata. I shouldn’t even be in the country. I’m supposed to have killed my wife and child. But I didn’t—I was looking into the name Rittenhouse, just that name, and next thing I know, I’m waking up to the sound of my wife and daughter being shot. I barely got out of there alive. If you do have something to do with Rittenhouse, in your family, then you need to find out and you need to guard yourself. I’m sure you’ve experienced enough tragedy already.”

Lucy stared at him. “I—I’m sorry. I, that name, I remember—” She looked away and gave an odd, semi-hysterical laugh. “For years I couldn’t remember what happened in that alley. And now it’s clear as day. _Rittenhouse sends their regards_. That’s what they said, and then they shot my parents.”

She looked up at him. “Perhaps you should stop by tomorrow for tea, Mr. Flynn. We can look over the pieces together, find out what we can.”

“I… I’m not sure that’s a good idea, I’m a criminal in the eyes of the law—”

“The law often fails, does it not?” Lucy said softly.

Flynn’s words stuck in his throat. “Yes,” he managed. “Yes, it does.”

“Tomorrow, then. Two p.m. work?”

“I—yes. Yes, that works.”

Lucy smiled at him, then looked around. “I believe that’s my sister waving to me—she wants to introduce me to the reporter she just banged in the library.”

“You sound remarkably nonplussed about this.”

Lucy snagged a champagne flute from a passing waiter and gulped the entire thing down. “Do not mistake composure for ease, Mr. Flynn.”

He took the flute from her. “If you’re sure, about—about my coming around—”

“I’m sure,” Lucy said, and the voice was different but it was the same tone she used when she told him to put those necklaces down.

Flynn couldn’t resist a smirk. “Then I’m sure we’ll be quite the team.”

Lucy raised an eyebrow at him and then melted into the crowd, not unlike when she vanished on a rooftop.

And Flynn looked around for a wall he could bang his head against.

 

* * *

 

Lucy could hardly breathe as she walked away. That was—the things he said, the way he—it had to be.

It _had_ to be.

She’d known that Black Cat was. Well of course he was athletic, and she’d come to terms with being fond of his voice, imagining it curling in her ear, _please, Angel,_ as she touched herself in bed, but she’d never imagined—

Jesus Christ she wanted to climb him like a goddamn tree.

Down, girl. This—this Rittenhouse, it was serious. She now understood, or at least partly understood, why Black Cat was the way that he was, what had driven him to ignore the law and wreck his own kind of chaotic justice.

And now, at last, she had the key to figuring out why her parents were murdered.

She did not need her libido getting in the way.

…even if he was insanely handsome and she would be having some _very_ detailed dreams later that night.

 

* * *

 

Wyatt rubbed at his temples. God he hated paperwork.

“Sir?”

He looked up at the cadet who’d just poked her head in. “Yes?”

“Um, the signal’s on, sir, up on the roof.”

Wyatt sighed. All right. Better see what Archangel wanted.

When he got up to the roof, though, it wasn’t just the vigilante.

A tall man wearing all black was lounging against the signal and tossing a diamond up and down like it was a baseball.

“Is that stolen?” Wyatt asked.

“Ignore him,” Archangel said. “He’s doing it to piss me off.”

“Is it working, Angel?” the man asked, smirking.

“…you must be Black Cat,” Wyatt groaned, putting two and two together. The renowned jewel and museum thief.

“Ah, he’s got brains. And here I thought they just chose him for his looks.”

The tips of Wyatt’s ears burned. “Any reason why he’s here and not in handcuffs?” he asked Archangel.

The vigilante sighed. Through their helmet, it sounded like static. “I’ve recently learned that there is an… organization of sorts that’s been working in the shadows. They’ve murdered several people who tried to stop them in their aims, and yet they’ve been undetected by me this entire time. As much as it pains me to say—I think that I need your help. To set up a sting.”

Wyatt frowned. “Why do you need him?”

“Because I know them,” Black Cat said. “Angel here needs my information.”

“It would be a coup for your career,” Archangel said. “And it would prove that a partnership between the Gotham police and myself is advantageous.”

Wyatt knew this was playing with fire, but sue him, he was curious. “What do you need me to do?”

 

* * *

 

Oddly enough, Flynn didn’t mind working with the commissioner. With Wyatt.

Over the next few weeks, he would work with Lucy as himself, at Preston Manor, and they’d do what research they could. He knew who she was, and he was… almost sure that she knew he was, but it was like there was this fragile spun silence between them, a thin bubble of glass that he was scared of shattering.

Then he as Black Cat would do research on his own—the kind that required breaking and entering.

Then he’d meet up with Wyatt and Lucy, as Archangel, on the roof to discuss their findings, the web that Rittenhouse had been weaving all these years, and the coup, and how Carol Preston had left and taken with her the funding, everything Rittenhouse had needed, their power gone—and how someone named Emma Whitmore was now trying to bring Rittenhouse back to what it had once been.

Lucy was—Lucy. As herself, in her home, he saw in her things he couldn’t see in Archangel. The softness, the smile, the way she seemed to light up inside when she talked about history. If he hadn’t been in love with her before (and he had been, whatever gender Archangel ended up being, whatever kind of person who was under that mask, Flynn hadn’t cared) he would’ve fallen in love with her by spending these afternoons with her, bent over documents together, doing research.

And Wyatt was…

Something, all right.

They got into arguments almost every night. Usually Archangel would end up dragging Wyatt to the side and lecturing him and then Wyatt would walk back over and apologize. They nearly came to blows once.

But Wyatt would also walk up to the roof spitting mad about corruption among his men and how he should just fire his entire goddamn force. He was painfully, acutely aware that he was put into power because of his gender and his skin color and Flynn could sense that Wyatt felt he didn’t deserve to be commissioner. He blushed easily, and had a massive crush on Archangel, and was stubborn as fuck and self-loathing as fuck and Flynn wanted to protect him as he hadn’t wanted to protect anyone in ages.

Revenge was so close he could taste it. And now—now that meant he had to think about what would happen after.

And he had no idea what would happen after except when he looked at Lucy, at her as Archangel, at Wyatt…

He knew that he wanted it to have something to do with them.

 

* * *

 

Lucy cut her gaze over to Flynn, who was bent over a document.

She looked back down at her own, her foot tapping on the floor.

She had to tell him. She wanted to tell him. But as time had gone on it had been harder to find a time to bring it up into conversation. _Hey, Black Cat, guess who I am._

He must know, right? Why else would he have called her ‘angel’ as he left her bedroom the night of the party? But he’d never given any indication since, as Flynn or as Black Cat, that he knew she and Archangel were the same person.

Perhaps he thought he was imagining it in the moment. She and Mason had worked hard to design her a suit that made her taller, made her gender ambiguous. The newspapers and all used ‘them/they’ pronouns but most people assumed she was male, and Lucy didn’t care either way. Just so long as none of them guessed she was Lucy Preston.

Not to mention—she wasn’t a billionaire anymore. She had done her work in breaking up the company’s monopoly, its assets, donating everything, setting up foundations—last she checked her net worth was around seven million.

But even a millionaire lived a high life. She didn’t have to work a single day for the rest of her life if she felt like it.

So why on earth would she of all people need to go running around dressed as a holy avenger complete with mechanical wings?

She was also aware that she was a lot more… confident. Controlled. In command, as Archangel. She felt almost like a different person in the suit, behind the mask. As Lucy she still felt small, vulnerable, like she had to constantly double-check herself and apologize.

Why wouldn’t he assume it was a mistake of the moment?

But then, if so, _how the fuck was she supposed to tell him!?_

“Lucy?”

She looked up and realized she’d been staring at the same spot on the page for several minutes. Flynn looked concerned. “Are you all right? Tired? Should we stop?”

As Black Cat, Flynn never gave her an inch. As himself, he was conscientious, supportive, praising her findings and her intelligence, encouraging her when she wanted to fling a file across the room in frustration.

She was a detective, dammit, that was her moniker in the papers. _World’s Greatest Detective_. It was her historian instincts, turning them into something new, something that fit her crusade. And everyone seemed to overlook that in favor of talking about how much Archangel could bench press.

Except—Flynn praised her research skills, her eye for detail, her encyclopedic memory.

He told her she was brave for doing this. For dealing with something that must be painful for her, for confronting her past even as that night rang over and over in her head, even as the memory of it threatened to drag her down and sometimes it felt like she was drowning.

And it was easier to reconcile the two sides of him than she’d thought. He teased her more gently as Flynn than as Black Cat but the sass was still there. He was more outspoken about the injustices of society as Black Cat but as Flynn he would debate with her for just as long on the same issues.

Two sides of the same coin.

Lucy realized she was staring at him. Goddammit. “I’m—I’m fine, I’m just…”

“Lucy.” Flynn set aside his papers. “I can tell something’s on your mind. What is it?”

She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s something.” Flynn gently took the papers out of her hands and set them on the table. “You said you were in contact with Archangel over this and that—the sting would happen soon. Are you nervous about it?”

This. This would be the perfect opportunity. Lucy opened her mouth. _Tell him tell him tell him—_

“I’m—”

She gestured helplessly, words failed her, and somehow she was launching herself forward and then she was kissing him.

Flynn made a startled _mmmph_ noise against her mouth, his hands flailing, papers got knocked over, and then he was hauling her into his lap and she was clawing at his dark gray t-shirt and she hadn’t been kissed this thoroughly in—in— _ever_.

“Lucy—” Flynn kept trying to talk but he also kept kissing her and she probably should stop and listen to him but five years, it had been five _years_ of wanting to fuck him, of hoping he’d steal something so she could talk to him and wishing they weren’t on opposite sides and wondering why the hell he had to be so damn stubborn.

She’d been in love with him for five years and that was before she’d learned he looked like Croatia’s Next Top Model and she was not waiting another goddamn second to get him between her thighs.

Flynn gave up on trying to talk, and latched his mouth to her neck instead, biting down and making heat shoot through her like a missile. Lucy arched, dragging herself against his hips, the rough denim of his jeans sparking against her folds and making her even wetter. She could just—just grind against him like this. The angle was good and she could feel him getting hard underneath her, mmm yes God he felt good and thick and she—she wanted that inside her—

“Garcia.” She couldn’t remember if she’d said his first name before. “Garcia—”

She got a hold of his hair and yanked his face back up. Flynn kissed her again and Lucy melted, her hips rolling frantically, fuck…

Flynn got his hands on her ass and lifted her up without warning, standing up. Lucy squeaked in surprise, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, as Flynn bent over and deposited her gently on the table.

“Where are you going?” she asked as he pulled away from her. “Get back here.”

Flynn pushed her shirt up, kissing along her stomach. “You have no idea how long I’ve been thinking about this.”

 _Five years?_ she almost asked him, the words were on the tip of her tongue, but then Flynn shoved her bra up and got his mouth on her breast and the ability to form words kind of fled for a minute.

Lucy yanked at his hair, dug her nails into his shoulders, tugged on his shirt until she thought it might tear. Flynn patiently kissed and sucked at what felt like every inch of skin on her body, working his way down to her hips at a maddeningly slow pace. Lucy impatiently lifted her hips as he got her jeans down, and when he finally nosed between her thighs, she thought she might actually sob in relief.

Flynn licked into her greedily, hungrily, like he was starving, like he’d been poisoned and she was the only cure. His tongue curled into her, around her clit, stroked teasingly through her folds and Lucy practically shoved herself into his mouth trying to chase her release. Then he slid two fingers into her— _he picks locks with those_ , Lucy thought dazedly—and oh oh _oh_ —

She really hoped Amy was still out on that lunch date with Jess and so wasn’t home to hear Lucy cry out as she came.

Flynn pushed up, staring at her, his gaze tracking her face like he wanted to keep looking at her for the rest of time. She could feel him still hard against her knee, though, and one orgasm was not enough to make up for five years of pent-up sexual frustration.

Lucy sat up, pushing him back into the chair, and then climbed back onto his lap, yanking at his jeans. “You’re not the only one who’s had ideas,” she told him, pulling his cock out.

They were both still half-dressed and they were in her mother’s library, but Lucy honestly didn’t care. Black Cat was reckless and wild and daring, and it seemed that some of that had at last rubbed off on her in at least one way.

Flynn got his hand in her hair, kissing her and tugging lightly as she stroked him, got a feel for him, learned how to twist her wrist in a way that made him jump and bite her lip. “An—Lucy, please,” he whispered, and oh, his voice sent shivers down her spine just like she’d always suspected it would in this scenario.

She spread her legs and sank down onto him, perhaps a little too quickly, her breath getting caught and strangled in the back of her throat. Flynn buried his face into her neck, and she could feel him trembling all over.

A few moments later he planted a soft kiss to the side of her neck and Lucy shifted, testing—finding the angle that dragged right along the inner wall against her clit, making her see stars in the corners of her eyes.

It felt like she could feel absolutely everything to its fullest extent—his lips catching on her collarbone, his hand spanning her back, the other one flexing around her hip, his soft hair against her mouth, his broad chest dragging against hers, every thrust and twitch of his cock inside of her. Lucy ached and ached and _ached_ , gasping and arching and pressing herself down, down, down, until Flynn was gasping in Croatian against her lips and she was shuddering, the whole world was shuddering, to an ecstatic halt.

 

* * *

 

“For the record,” Amy said later, “I know what you did in the library.”

“You fucked your girlfriend in that library in the middle of a party,” Lucy replied. “Your accusations touch me not.”

 

* * *

 

“You look like you caught the canary,” Wyatt observed as Black Cat landed on the rooftop beside him. “Where’s Archangel?”

“Running up a few last threads,” he replied. “We all set for the sting?”

Wyatt nodded. “Whitmore took the bait. She thinks she’s meeting Lucy Preston.”

“Good.” Black Cat glanced at him. Wearing all black, with the eyeholes to frame them, the dark green in his eyes was more noticeable.

Wyatt realized he was staring and looked away. “What will you do after this?” he asked. “Wasn’t Rittenhouse the whole reason you started this… crusade? Once they’re finished, what will you do?”

Black Cat shrugged. “I was hoping that maybe—maybe Gotham’s guardian would need a partner.”

“You, a vigilante?”

“Crazier things have happened.” Silence fell for a moment, and then Black Cat added, “Archangel likes you, you know. Thinks you’re cute.”

Wyatt nearly fell off the roof. “I’m—he—they—”

Black Cat held up a hand. “Just wanted to let you know if you wanted to say something. I can see your pining from space, it’s brighter than the Wing Signal.”

Wyatt glared at him. “Am I that obvious?”

“You wear your heart on your sleeve, Wyatt, for better or for worse.”

“For worse.” Wyatt folded his arms and looked away. “If I’d hidden it better maybe my dad would’ve had fewer reasons to kick the shit out of me.”

Black Cat grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him back around. “That wasn’t your fault,” he growled.

“I know that, all right?”

“Do you? Sounds like you don’t. Is that why you hate yourself?”

“Fuck you, I don’t hate myself.”

“Right. Because people are so cranky and defensive and desperate for control and power when they really like themselves and are comfortable with who they are.”

Wyatt shrugged Black Cat’s hand off. “Okay, so my dad fucked me up. Whatever. I have it under control.”

Black Cat laughed. “Y’know, half the time I want to smack you.”

“And the other half?”

“How about a little deal.” Somehow the man’s hands ended up on Wyatt’s hips. “You agree to go to therapy and work on getting Christopher reinstated as commissioner since you’re miserable in this job, and I’ll tell you.”

“What’s in it for you?”

“A boyfriend who knows how to have a healthy relationship with himself and others.”

“Boy—what?”

“Do you agree?”

Wyatt swallowed hard, caught by those eyes. “Yeah, yeah, Jess has been trying to get me to go for ages. I agree.”

Black Cat pushed his mask up enough to expose the bottom half of his face—and then he was kissing him.

Wyatt nearly lost his balance, grabbing onto Black Cat’s shoulders for purchase, inhaling sharply. This was—okay, okay, if he’d been in doubt before about maybe not being quite as straight as he’d planned, this sure as hell pushed him right over the line into definitely bi territory.

“That’s what I want to do the other half of the time,” Black Cat whispered.

Jesus Christ. “Take off your mask.”

“Mmm, and why should I do that?” His thumbs were rubbing little circles into Wyatt’s hips and Wyatt thought he might actually die.

“Because I want to see what my boyfriend’s face looks like.”

Black Cat chuckled, and then sure enough he was peeling off the rest of the mask.

“Oh my God.” Wyatt poked him in the chest. “You’re—what’s his name, from the party—”

“Garcia Flynn.” Flynn winked at him, just like he had that night, and motherfucker Wyatt was going to kill him—

Just, uh, just as soon as he finished letting Flynn stick his tongue down his throat, yup. In just a minute.

“Mmm, one thing,” Flynn noted as he scraped his teeth across Wyatt’s jaw, “Archangel. Call me greedy, but I’m not settling for just one of you.”

“I thought you said my crush on them could be seen from space? I’m not objecting.”

“Just making sure.” Flynn kissed him again, hard and fierce. “We’ll have to have a proper talk. After.”

“After…” _Please say _‘_ after I fuck you’ please say ‘after I fuck you’ please say ‘after I fuck you’…_

“After the sting,” Flynn said, and then he stepped away, yanking his mask back on.

The bastard.

 

* * *

 

Wyatt shook his head, then tapped the communicator hidden in the watch on his wrist. “I think this sting is a bust.”

“She’ll be here,” was the curt response from Flynn.

Wyatt sighed. He felt a rush of wind and knew without turning around that Archangel had just landed behind him. Funny, once they could sneak up on him without him ever knowing, but now he knew them too well for that. “I should call in backup,” he said.

“No,” Archangel replied. “If we call in backup she’ll know.”

“Look, I get it.” Wyatt turned around to face them. “This is personal for you. They killed your parents. But—”

“We can’t trust the police,” Archangel replied. “We never can. You know that as well as I do, you’ve said it yourself.”

“I’m the commissioner! If it’s found out that I conducted a sting—an entire investigation—with a vigilante and a jewel thief—do you have any idea—”

 “Stop trying to be who everyone says you should be!” Archangel snapped. “Start being who you really want to be!”

Wyatt froze. He knew that, he _knew_ that.

“…Lucy?”

Archangel stopped.

Wyatt groaned. “Are you telling me I fuckin’ pulled a Shang from _Mulan_?”

“Not for nothing,” Flynn said over the radio.

Okay, fair point.

Archangel sighed. “Yes. It’s me.”

 _We're the same age, Commissioner, I think the 'sir' is unnecessary._ The callused hands. The knowing looks Lucy had given him at the party.

“Why—you’ve been—working with Flynn, why didn’t you—”

“Trust you?” It sounded so odd, knowing Lucy was under that suit, but hearing Archangel’s deep, modified tones. “I didn’t know what you could and couldn’t report. You were a cop, and everyone—I couldn’t, Wyatt. No matter how much I wanted to.”

“Who else knows?”

“Mason, Rufus, and Amy have always known. Jiya figured it out a couple years ago. That’s it.”

“I had a whole sexuality crisis over you,” Wyatt blurted out. “I thought you were—I mean. You’re—you’re tall. And—yeah. I thought. Oh God I got drunk and told Jess—oh my God.”

“You’re not disappointed, are you?” It was hard to tell but he thought Lucy sounded amused.

“No, _God_ no. Uh. Very much. Opposite of disappointed.”

“I hate to interrupt the love fest,” Flynn said, “but we’ve got company.”

Wyatt turned and he felt the brush of wind as Archangel vanished.

The tall redhead he recognized from the photos strode into view. Emma Whitmore.

“All right,” she said, her voice a bored drawl. “Where are you, Miss Preston? Let’s get this over with.”

Wyatt stepped out of the shadows. “Miss Whitmore. Glad you could make it.”

Emma’s lip curled upwards into a snarl. “Let me guess. Preston was never going to actually hand over the goods.”

“Your society murdered her parents, so no.”

“Shame.” Emma reached into her coat. “And I’m sure it would be a real feather in your cap to be the one who finally brought Rittenhouse to light, Logan, but I’m afraid—”

Archangel landed silently behind her.

Emma whipped around, pulling her gun, but Archangel knocked it out of her hand. Wyatt grabbed the handcuffs. “Emma Whitmore, you’re under arrest—”

“She’s not alone!” Flynn yelled over the radio, and then Wyatt was dodging more gunfire. He saw a black shadow streak through the night and then the gunshots stopped as he heard someone grunting in pain.

“I couldn’t see it, but I’m sure that was hot,” Wyatt said.

He got a purr from Flynn in response.

Archangel and Emma were going at it, punching and kicking and flipping. Lucy wasn’t fighting with her usual finesse and calm power. She was angry, emotional, not thinking clearly.

“I have worked too hard to bring this society back to power,” Emma snarled. “To give it up to the likes of you!”

“And I have spent my entire life, waiting for the moment to destroy you!” Lucy roared. “So which of us is it going to be, huh!?”

“How about both?” Emma hissed, yanking her hand out of her coat.

…oh fuck.

“There’s a bomb!” Wyatt yelled.

Emma pressed the trigger.

 

* * *

 

Flynn saw it happening before it actually happened—knew the danger, knew this was Emma’s final gambit, a suicide run—and knew Lucy hadn’t cleared the blast radius.

The bomb went off, Emma disappearing into a burst of light, and Lucy went flying, landing in a sickeningly crumpled heap twenty feet away.

“Angel!” Flynn screamed, the word raw and torn out of his throat.

He was at her side in an instant, ripping the suit off her, yanking at the helmet until it gave way and he could see her face. “I’ve got you,” he croaked, pulling her out of the suit. “I’ve got you.”

Lucy curled into him, coughing. “Could’ve… made it more padded but that would’ve… made it too bulky…”

Flynn looked up as Wyatt ran over. “She okay?”

“She needs a hospital.”

“N-no.” Lucy weakly grabbed at his shirt. “No, hospitals, take me, home, Amy—first aid—doctor, whole medical station, she’ll—know.”

Flynn cradled her head against his chest. His shoulder screamed in pain, but he ignored it. “Rufus?” he asked. “Jiya?”

“Safe,” Wyatt confirmed.

“Whitmore?”

“Dead.”

Flynn nodded, then looked down at Lucy. “Let’s get you home, Angel,” he whispered.

Lucy rested her head on his shoulder. “Knew it was you,” she whispered. “Since the party.”

“I know. I knew it was you.” He should have told her—he’d been in love with her the entire time.

Lucy slumped in his arms, passed out.

Wyatt stayed to deal with the police clean up while Flynn borrowed Wyatt’s car and drove Lucy back up to Preston Manor. Amy was up, worried almost to the point of being frantic—apparently there were trackers that had a communications system and monitored Lucy’s vitals. When both had gone down because Flynn yanked her out of the suit, Amy had feared the worst.

“Rufus knew tech,” Amy explained as she administered first aid in the medical bay down in the cave. “So did Jiya, and she got a job as Lucy’s secretary to help manage her social life with Mason. That left me with nothing to do. I don’t have Lucy’s years of combat training or I’d join her out in the field, and I know… she lost our parents. She couldn’t lose me.”

“You lost your parents, too.”

Amy grimaced. “Not in the same way. Mom and I… weren’t close. It’s complicated. Anyway… this was something I could do. She comes home with bruises and lesions and all this other bullshit from getting kicked around. So I patch her up.”

“I didn’t know you were a doctor.”

“Most people don’t. I only use it for her, anyway. I have only one patient but I have to be on call every night.” Amy flashed him a smile, and then finished up Lucy’s stitches. “That should be the last of it. You can sit with her, if you want.” Amy paused. “She’s… we’ve all known, even if she never said… her nights with you, when she ran into you I mean, she’d come back smiling. Always.”

Then she turned and left him alone with Lucy.

 

* * *

 

Lucy came to slowly, hearing someone humming a song. A warm hand gently passed through her hair, pushing it out of the way, the thumb caressing the shell of her ear.

“Flynn,” she murmured.

When she opened her eyes, she saw it was so.

Flynn smiled. He looked exhausted, and she saw fear lurking in his eyes. “You gave us a fright there, Angel.”

Lucy smiled wanly. Ugh, she ached all over. Wasn’t the first time she’d come home as one big bruise and it wouldn’t be the last. “We got them, though.”

“Yeah. Yeah, we got them. Rittenhouse is gone.”

Lucy’s eyes slid closed. She forced herself to open them again. “I like when you say my name.”

“Lucy?”

“Yes. But. The other one.” Her hand fumbled for him—Flynn caught it, squeezing gently.

“Angel,” he whispered.

“Yes,” Lucy breathed. “That one.”

There was a commotion up the steps, the sound of arguing. Flynn turned. “Let him in, Amy, he knows everything.”

A moment later Wyatt tore down the steps. “I just got finished wrapping it all up—gonna be a fuck ton of paperwork tomorrow—is she okay?”

He saw Lucy was awake and skidded to a halt, then crept forward cautiously. “Hey. Hey, how’re you feeling?”

“Like I got the shit beat out of me,” Lucy said.

Wyatt reached out—then paused, like he was unsure.

It occurred to Lucy, throughout all of their interactions, that she and Wyatt had yet to solidify anything—through looks or words or touch.

She looked at Flynn. Would he be…?

Flynn surprised her by reaching over and wrapping his hand around the back of Wyatt’s neck and pulling him in, kissing Wyatt’s temple. “Glad you stuck with us, Logan. Maybe you’re not such a bad commissioner after all.”

“Ha, ha, ha.” Wyatt glared at him, but Lucy saw the adoration peeking out in Wyatt’s gaze.

Flynn looked at Lucy. He nodded.

Lucy tugged on Wyatt’s shirt sleeve, pulling him in, clumsily kissing his cheek. “There’s enough room in my bed for three.”

Wyatt pressed his forehead to hers. “I’d—I’d like that.”

She didn’t remember being carried upstairs—she had a vague impression, a smell, like leather and cinnamon, and she recognized it as Flynn—but she remembered lying in bed, and warmth wrapping around her, and she remembered hearing low voices whispering to each other, endearments, kissing—

She remembered being curled up on a warm, solid chest.

And she remembered finally feeling safe.


End file.
